We'll See
by began-to-climb
Summary: He pushes, she shoves; he rolls, she tosses; dynamic. Cobb/Ariadne, Warning: Spoilers for the movie


**Name: **We'll See

**Rating: **PG

**Summary: **_He pushes, she shoves; he rolls, she tosses; dynamic. The ace to his spade, the definition to his infinity._

**Disclaimer: **I don't own any of these characters. They are all the property of Christopher Nolan (who's brilliant, if you didn't know). I also don't own the song lyrics featured in this piece, which are from the Mimicking Bird's song, _Burning Stars_.

**Authors Note: **Since there is seriously a sufficient lack of Cobb/Ariadne love in this fandom (why so community?), voila. I know it just goes through the movie, plus some, and I know that some of the dialogue from the film is wrong. I wasn't memorizing while I was watching it so bear with me.

_And all we are is burning stars_

_shining brightly, making sure you don't float too far_

_I'll keep an eye on you if you keep one on me_

_And then what happens we'll see_

_And then what happens we'll see_

"Come back to reality, Dom."

He understands, mostly, why people don't believe him, trust him. He's never given anyone outside his clenched inner ring reason to (even then those in the ring sometime question his judgment) nor is he the most dependable person in the world. A man drifting in and out of the dreamscape, flitting from one country to the next but never home (never home). Being a thief doesn't earn him many golden stars either.

But he expects more from his father, his own flesh and blood, the very man who taught him everything he knows. The dimensions of the mind, the backdoors and its lairs, how it can be bent and sinuous and shaped into his own globe, contained in a bubble and under his control, influence. He expects something he should know he'll never receive, not with his life as convoluted as it is.

"I think I found a way home," Cobb explains carefully, treading on the eggshells of Miles' trepidation. "It's a job for some very, very powerful people, people who I believe can fix my charges permanently. This last job, that's how I get there. But I need your help."

The corners of Miles' lips twitch, a half-way house for amusement; he points a pen at him, much in the way a judge brandishes a gavel, condescending. "You're here to corrupt one of my brightest and best."

"You know what I'm offering. You have to let them decide for themselves."

"Money."

"Not just money. You remember." The wonderment begins to creep back into his voice, edging into his being, as mesmerizing and alluring as the phantom with the spring curls. "It's…the chance to build cathedrals and entire cities, things that never existed, things that _can't_ exist in the real world." Cobb leans forward, bracing his hands on the desk. "I need an architect who's as good as I was."

There's a moment, however small and brief it is, that unnerves Cobb, that makes him think he's finally pushed too hard and asked too much, hung out to dry. The time's finally come. But then Miles sighs, resigning to another behest, and moves forward, folding his arms in front of him.

"I've got somebody better."

* * *

"Ariadne."

She's definitely not what he had in mind; petite in skinny jeans, gaunt, straight and boyish in every way but the full red lips and dark mahogany curls. She skips down the stairs and jogs over to them, messenger bag thumping against her hip, clutching tighter to the books in her left hand.

"Mr. Cobb has a job offer he'd like to discuss with you."

Her every focus shifts to him; he resists the urge to fidget uncomfortably under the eagerness. "Like a work placement?"

There's absolutely no way she's right for this.

"Not exactly," he refutes shortly.

They end up on the roof, on the wrong side of the safety railing, balancing on the shingles while the city lazily moves about below. No maddened rush, all luxurious with time, no one chasing, no one running; he's always sort of envied that.

Ariadne attempts small talk, asking about the job to which she's auditioning for, but he pushes a notepad and pen into her hand, instructing her, with the final note of, "It's not strictly-speaking legal."

The first maze she sketches is childish and affords bare minimal effort. There isn't any thought, just the generic box and parallel lines that he has mapped out in three seconds. He crumbles the paper in his hand. Again, he says. Again the same box.

"You have to do better—"

She wrenches it from his grasp before he can finish, narrowed eyes directed at him, and then turns it over to the backside of the cardboard cover, contemplating momentarily. Cobb inwardly smirks. She's determined—good—and stubborn—even better—but it doesn't prove she has the ability, talent, creativity to be what he needs.

She hands back a sphere with a few etch marks inside then sips her coffee idly. This maze, it's unbeatable.

Then again, he's been wrong on more than one occasion.

"That's more like it."

* * *

It takes less than half an hour for him to discover how wrong he really is. He pushes, she shoves; he rolls, she tosses; dynamic. The ace to his spade, the definition to his infinity.

* * *

_Review?_


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